The Morning After
by Sarahbeara333
Summary: John wakes up to find himself in his bed next to Sherlock with no recollection of the night before. Random, cracky porn time! Oneshot


**DISCLAIMER: All of these characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

**WARNINGS: Random, cracky Johnlock sex as commissioned/prompted by Riana!**

The Morning After

A soft breeze danced throughout the streets of London. It flew through conversations—carrying with it muffled laughter and indiscernible words, but all were lost in the echoing boulevards, the cracks in the sidewalk. It passed over the hoods of warming cars, their groggy drivers impatiently waiting upon the morning's first cup of tea to stop steaming so threateningly. It weaves past buildings and car parks, flouncing back the branches of any nearby trees back with a graceful sweep and finally trickles into the open window of a bedroom, tickling one of the occupants nose.

They sneeze and turn onto their side, instinctively curing into a ball to protect their body from the cold air. He reaches down for the covers with a subdued whine, only to find that they have all mysteriously disappeared. The inhabitant grumbles and yawns, only half awake as he squints his eyes against the intrusive sunlight and gropes around his bed for the white comforter. His hand travels across the smooth cover-sheet and runs over a warm body that is tucked into a ball of supple sheets and breathing warmly against the side of his face. Grabbing a piece of the blanket he slips himself under them and mutters an apology to the other resident, ruffling their soft, ebony curls before settling back down.

John Watson sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding and head aching terribly. He slowly turns and his blue eyes widen infinitesimally at the unmistakable sight of Sherlock Holmes cuddled up in _his_ blankets. He pushes backwards off the bed and almost falls on his arse, but for the fact he is gripping the bedpost so firmly that he is fairly certain he would be secure in an earthquake. He rubs his face with the hand that is not molded to the backing and sits down, trying his best _not _to panic.

_Calm down_, he thinks. After all, there has to be a perfectly logical and extremely platonic explanation for himself waking up in his bed next to his flatmate with a hangover and recollection of what had happened the night previous. He tries to remember something, _anything _from the past evening but all he can remember is coming home after a long and fruitless chase with the mentality that getting drunk would be the perfect restoration to his annoyance that Sherlock had made him run at least five miles, only to have been following a suspicious-looking street merchant—and Sherlock's anger that he'd been wrong. John remembers sitting down in his chair and pouring himself a brandy, only to have it purloined by Sherlock, and decanting another for himself with an exasperated sigh; he remembers after the second drink and fifteen minutes of Sherlock's constant and exceedingly verbal sulking deciding to fuck all and get smashed. After that, his memory becomes fuzzy and unsure until finally he cannot remember climbing the stairs to his bedroom, though clearly he had. He releases his grip on the wood and stands, deciding he will be able to recall what had happened after he is properly hydrated.

John stalks back into the room three minutes later with two Advil and a glass full of tap water sloshing about loudly. He glances at Sherlock and is relived to find that his friend is still asleep, blissfully unaware of the situation. _Perhaps_,thinks John wildly, _I can just carry him to his room and we will never have to think about this again. _Unfortunately for himself however, John Watson is a man of honour and excessive moral integrity—far too steadfast to allow something so deceptive. So down he sits in the soft chair adjunct from his bed and there he waits for the awful moment that Sherlock will awaken and they will need to have an awkward and extraordinarily uncomfortable conversation.

His gaze shifts to his friend and an errant thought wonders if it will really be so bad if they _have_ slept together. John is not gay (though the general public seem convinced otherwise), will one drunken action really make him so? However when he finds himself thinking on the exploit of shagging Sherlock, it isn't in the negative. In fact, the whole idea is almost appealing. To let his hand wander over the sharp cheekbones, across the lean neck, and down, brushing his abdomen lightly—to allow himself to indulge in a soft kiss, their breathes mingling and legs tangled, running the pad of his finger up the other man's spine, across his shoulder blades… No, John is not gay. The thought of doing these things to any other man is remarkably off-putting. In a way, it is almost equally unattractive if he pictures a woman in Sherlock's place—which is ridiculous because he'd had a lovely shag with a blonde bird not two weeks ago. Everything else just seems so inadequate next to a secret love affair with the world's only consulting detective.

John is snapped out of his musings by a muffled groan from the warm ball sprawled out in the centre of his bed. Sherlock turns over and glances at John, muttering a throaty hello before flipping over onto his other side and burying himself deeper into the pillow. John blinks. He'd been expecting some sort of disgruntled reaction from his friend, not a casual good morning as if they'd done this thousands of times. He decides it is a positive sign. What if Sherlock had actually _enjoyed _it? John's mind races, trying to come up with another explanation of why he would be so casual, but can think of none. _Only one way to find out_, thinks he.

John stands and strides over to the bed with a sort of nervous confidence that only he can possess and pulls the sheets off the bed impatiently. Sherlock turns and mutters something incoherent that sounds like:

"John, what? It's the morning. Go awa—"

Which is not his best deduction by a long shot, but the rest is lost when John leans in, grabs his sleep-ruffled purple shirt, and pulls him into an experimental kiss. _Well_. John had been right about Sherlock being fantastic. The other man freezes for a second before reacting, deepening the kiss and snaking his hand into John's sandy hair. He opens his lips for John's incessant tongue and moans when he feels the soft muscle meet his.

John could kiss Sherlock forever, if only his cock isn't demanding as much attention. He lets one hand meander up and coil in Sherlock's wavy hair, attempting to loosen the other from his shirt and intent on ripping off their clothes, but long, white fingers bat his hand away.

"Allow me," says Sherlock through the kiss in a low voice, gravelly from lust and sleep.

In response, John pulls back Sherlock's head to get better access to his neck and nips at it teasingly, which makes Sherlock let out stream of unintelligible swears as John bites down hard just above his jugular. In his frustration, Sherlock nearly tears off a few of his own shirt buttons but hardly seems to notice.

They carry on in this desperate fashion until finally, _finally_ all their clothing is strewn in piles across the bed and floor. John doesn't stop to look, but he is pretty sure his pants are dangling from the nightstand. He touches their lips together quickly once more before reaching past Sherlock to grab the lube inside his drawer. He crawls back towards him, sure and eager, but Sherlock grabs him roughly by both shoulders (which sends a delightful amalgamation of pleasure and pain shooting through his body), throws him down on the bed, and takes the bottle from him. Sherlock expertly dribbles some onto John's prick, enchanted with the gasp that rises because of the cold substance.

"S-so you h–have done this before." John manages.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"No."

Sherlock fists his cock and suddenly John is beyond words more complicated than 'fuck _Sherlock_' or 'Jesus'. All too soon, the hand is removed and John almost whimpers in lament. Sherlock seems to falter for a second, unsure of whether or not he should do something to himself. Finally, he rationalizes that he has always jumped straight into things, not waded, and lowers himself onto John's leaking cock with a grunt, which John can not decided is hurt or gratification. Apparently, it is the latter because Sherlock begins to ride him with vigour. He vaguely notices that Sherlock is pumping his own cock in tandem and John, ever the gentleman, shoves Sherlock's pale hand away, replacing it with his own, which earns a grateful cry from the man.

It is not the way he'd imagined it would be. He had pictured moving slowly, building up to shagging over a couple of steady months, and then finally needing to show Sherlock _exactly _how it was done—after all, the man was a virgin. He had not expected Sherlock to take any form of control; he had not expected it to be rough and fast and deliciously dirty. Instead, Sherlock was learning in the way he learns all things—through careful observation. Even now, he is probably noting the way John's back arches at every downward roll of his hips; the way he sucks in an even shallower breath when Sherlock drags his fingernails over his sensitive nipples. No, shagging Sherlock Holmes is, as many things are with him, _not _what he'd expected. It is so much better.

And then John can't think because oh _god _Sherlock is leaning down to reconnect their lips and the things that man can do with his tongue. John opens his eyes briefly and sees Sherlock staring back at him intently, almost cat-like, and his eyes have turned this striking shade of blue-green—the brown flecks surrounding his pupil intensifying the resemblance to a feline. Then they are coming and John can't see anything but those eyes until finally the pleasure is so concentrated that he has to shut his own and he can't think, can't breathe; it could lasted forever and it still won't be enough.

It did end, however, and with a lazy whine, Sherlock disentangles himself from John and rolls to the side, only to revisit the warmth that always surrounds John, and curls up in a languid heap next to him. When he has regained the capacity of speech, John asks,

"So, was it this good last night?"

Sherlock cracks an eye and frowns at John.

"If you are referring to myself carrying you up to your bed, then passing out next to you, no, it most definitely was _not_."

John's deep laugh burbles out and Sherlock's face twists in an air of annoyance at his own confusion.

"What?" asks he, sharply.

"Nothing—it's absolutely nothing, Sherlock."

"What?" he asks again, brow wrinkling in adorable aggravation.

"Nothing." John replies again, poking Sherlock in the ribs.

As their banter continues, a chilling breeze blows in, carrying all the sounds of a thoroughly roused London. John shivers slightly, even though Sherlock's body is pressed firmly next to his own, and makes himself roll out of bed to close the casement (much to the distaste of the consulting detective). Snapping it shut, he crawls back into the bed with Sherlock, once again snorting at his puzzlement. The wind brings their banter along with it, despite the fact that the true sounds have been left at 221B Baker Street. And the wind somehow seems to be a bit brighter and more cheerful as it dances through the car parks and streets, and as it rustles the trees and blows through motorways full of drivers finishing their last few sips of the morning's first tea.


End file.
